


Playing Favourites

by Anonymous



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 19:30:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8766079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Newt knows that he shouldn't play favourites.





	

Newt knows that he shouldn't play favourites - he has sworn that he won't, actually, but it is not easy to remember at times like this. His creatures are all special, all deserving of the same consideration and care - no matter that some people don't seem to see that - but it is hard to remember that right now.  
  
His suitcase has many rooms, but he never thought that he'd build a room for this. He never thought to build a luxurious bed, to conjure silken sheets, to transfigure pillows into soft supports.   
  
He was never one for beds, anyhow, and to lay like this, spread-eagled and looking up at what might as well be the open sky - that seems to suit him, somehow.  
  
He knows that he shouldn't play favourites, but the Bowtruckles pressing against his skin are his favourites right now. Soft twigs and soft leaves and nimble, nimble fingers. They can unlock the trickiest lock with just the same amount of ease that they use to undo him.  
  
Pickett pinches his nipples and then darts up for a leafy kiss. He was curious to learn how to kiss the human way and oh, Newt should not have taught him this, should not have corrupted him - but it feels desperate and silken and _good_ in a way that nothing else has ever felt.   
  
(He knows that he should not play favourites but he will not deny them, will not deny Pickett, the dignity of their own choice.)  
  
Pickett and the rest - and they are driving him to the brink of incoherency, to the point where he will not remember their names or his own name, with their touches and the slither of silk-soft leaves against his skin - they touch him and press hard against him and seem to know just what he needs. He is pressed on his back against grass that is coarser than his Bowtruckles, splayed out for all the world to see and they echo his moans with a sound that is like the sound of a soft breeze through the grass.   
  
They are pressed against his skin, some Bowtruckles squirting a viscious sap that eases the way, pressing against his entrance, pressing into him. Others of them have taken hold of his cock and are stroking it, stroking it until he is as hard as their twiggy bodies. Pickett is perched on his chin and stroking his mouth in the semblance of another kiss and then fucking into his mouth with all the force that he can hold in his tiny body.   
  
Newt feels as though they own him - he has never believed in pets, in owning, in collars, but he would swear now that he is his, that just on the cusp of this incandescence, that they touch him everywhere that he can or should or must be touched. His lips drag on the bumps and bends of Pickett's body, sweaty and sopping with sap and saliva.   
  
It feels so good that he forgets that he should not play favourites.   
  
If this is some Eden, some heaven, it is a miracle that Adam ever left the garden, Newt thinks, and it is the last coherent thought that he has for a long time.


End file.
